


Baking Biscuits with Hermione

by Emmilyne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 02:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5726899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmilyne/pseuds/Emmilyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of war, of sleeping in caves and leaking tents, Hermione just wanted to do simple things, homey things, things like baking Christmas Biscuits the muggle way like she did when she was little.  But her mother wants to use a <i>mixer</i> and Ron just wants to distract her, and nothing is the way she remembers.</p><p>  Maybe the problem is what Hermiome's looking for can't be found in a bowl of butter and sugar.</p><p>Written in 2006 (before book 7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baking Biscuits with Hermione

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand-alone bit of Christmas fluff and is not a part of either my _Of Hearts and Heroes_ or _Smart Girls Universe_. Also, for those of you who, like myself, are Americans not so fluent in Brit speak, biscuits=cookies and hob=stovetop. Hope that helps. :) 
> 
> I had meant to get this out before Christmas. Oops. Well a belated Happy reading and Happy Holidays! 

“Here, dear.  Just let me show you how to use the mixer,” Mrs. Granger insisted for the eightieth time that night, standing on her tiptoes to open the kitchen cabinet that held the appliance.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes as she carefully measured sugar and poured it over the butter that lay in a large wooden bowl.  “I’m _fine_ , Mum,” she insisted, _again_ , not even bothering to keep the frustration out of her tone.  “I want to do it the way we did when I was little.”

 

“When you were little we used a mixer.”

 

That made Hermione pause.  She had this vivid image from her childhood of her mother stirring the Christmas biscuits with a large wooden spoon.  It was one of the images she clung to on those cold, dank Christmases she spent with her best friends huddled in caves and tents.  Warm fires, eggnog, and Christmas biscuits made in a large wooden bowl with a long wooden spoon.

 

“Well, I want to do it _this_ way,” Hermione said passionately, smiling to herself.  She’d been waiting for _this_ Christmas for a long time.  “Come away from there, Mum.  You’ll get your new party dress all mussed.”

 

Her mother harrumphed, but finally stepped back, crossing her arms over her elegant black dress.  “You’re as stubborn as they come, you know that?” she said with frustration, leaving Hermione to contemplate apples and exactly how far they tended to fall from trees as she smashed the butter with the spoon.

 

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this?  We could do it together tomorrow,” her mother pressed, wringing her hands anxiously.  “You haven’t baked the … _regular_ way in years.”

 

Actually, Hermione hadn’t baked _any_ way in years.  But something inside her was determined to do this _tonight_ , when she would be free of her mother’s meddling and her ruddy mixer.  “I’ll be fine.  It’s not that hard.  Besides, we did this _every_ year when I was growing up.”

 

 “But—”

 

“ _Mum_ ,” Hermione interrupted.  Finally pushed beyond exasperation, she turned and placed her hands on her hips.  “I’m _fine_.  You and Daddy go to the party.  I promise I won’t burn the house down.”

 

Her mother pierced her lips in a familiar sort of way, but after a moment, she sighed and pulled her shawl off the back of a kitchen chair.  “All right, then.  You _do_ remember how to use the cell phone, yes?  Just in case—”

 

“ _Yes_ , Mum.”

 

“And you’ll keep your wand handy?  If there is an emergency … a fire—”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled her wand out of her apron pocket.  “It’s right here, Mum.” 

 

Honestly, all this fuss.  One would think she were handling dangerous explosives or cooking a banquet for the queen.  They were _just_ biscuits, a little sugar, a few eggs … Hermione stared at the delicate egg in her hand.  Exactly how _did_ one get the insides out without getting shell into the batter?  Her mother had always done that part.

 

“Well then, your father and I will just be …” 

 

Hermione barely listened to her mother as she recited their plans for the evening, _again_.  Instead, she worried her lip and stared at the egg.  What to do?  What to do?  Well, asking for her mother’s help was _not_ an option.  So …

 

Throwing a quick glance behind her to see that her mother wasn’t looking, Hermione carefully pulled out her wand and hid it in front of her.  Then turning on the kitchen sink to muffle the sounds, she muttered a charm under her breath.  The shell disappeared and the egg plopped into the batter. 

 

She smiled in triumph.  Well, that worked nicely.  No need to feel guilty.  It was just one little spell.  Hermione was still baking the Muggle way … mostly.  Humming a little Christmas tune, she picked up the second egg and repeated the process.

 

“Hermione?”

 

Her father’s deep voice startled her and Hermione jumped and turned, hiding her wand behind her back.  “Yes, Dad?” she asked as innocently as she could manage.  Just because there was nothing wrong with using one _tiny_ little spell didn’t mean anyone had to know about it.

 

Her farther just smiled, not having noticed anything amiss.  Hermione let out a small sigh of relief, slipping her wand into the apron strings behind her back.  “My, don’t you look nice,” she said a tad too brightly and tried to hide her suspicious behavior by going over and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

 

“Thank you, dear.  I found someone to keep you company.  Just littering about on the doorstep, he was.”  Hermione’s father chuckled at what _only_ he would consider a joke, then stepped aside, revealing her boyfriend standing shyly in the kitchen doorway.  “Don’t get into too much trouble, you hear?”  Her father winked at her and patted Ron on the shoulder as he leaned out the door and called for her mother.

 

Hermione’s smile widened.  What a wonderful surprise.  She hadn’t expected to see Ron today.  It was something she had prepared herself for.  After all, she didn’t _need_ to be with him every _single_ day.  But watching him there now, politely telling her mother how nice she looked, Hermione was filled with relief.  It was nice seeing him every day.

 

They stood back from each other, waiting for the Grangers to leave before greeting each other properly.  Ron still wasn’t comfortable with displays of affection in front of Hermione’s parents.  And why should he be?  He’d rarely seen them in the three years they’d been a couple.  They’d been rather busy, fighting a war and all.

 

Doing her best to tune out her mother’s final instructions and warnings, Hermione, instead, took the opportunity to admire the crisp lines of Ron’s charcoal gray pants and his dashing, blue button-down shirt.  Heavens, he filled it out nicely.  He’d become quite a man, her Ron.

 

 “You look nice,” she breathed, after her parents were _finally_ gone.  Hermione came toward him with open arms, but then caught herself and remembered to clasp her dirty hands behind her back.  Ron looked too handsome to streak with flour.  Instead, she came up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss.

 

Ron chuckled at her actions, the sound vibrating against her lips as he rested his large hands on the curves of her hips.  “You look … er, domestic.”  He laughed and Hermione wrinkled her nose in distaste at his back-handed compliment.  “ _And_ adorable,” he conceded, like a proper boyfriend.

 

“That’s better.”

 

Ron laughed again, kissing the tip of her scrunched up nose.  “Mmm, sugar …” He smacked his lips together.  “And butter.  Yum.”

 

“Humph,” Hermione reprimanded, turning away from his teasing and fighting a smile as she picked up her spoon again.  “Just be glad I don’t want to mess up your nice clothes.  What are you so dressed up for, anyway?  Weren’t you having a night out with your brothers and Harry?”

 

 Ron shrugged, looking down and back up in that adorable way he did whenever he was embarrassed.  “I thought I’d take my best girl out for a nice dinner instead.  But I see you have other plans.”  He gestured toward the slightly less than tidy kitchen with a lopsided grin.

           

 His tone was light, but … there was something _off_ in Ron’s expression tonight.  He seemed almost down.  Hermione wrinkled her brow.  What could he possibly have to be upset about?  The war was over.  The people they cared most about were alive and well.  And it was almost Christmas, their first _real_ Christmas together.

 

“I’m baking Christmas biscuits,” Hermione announced, suddenly brimming with excitement and wanting to share it with him.  She hoped some of her bright mood would rub off.

 

It appeared to work and Ron smiled back.  “Is that so?” he teased.  “I didn’t know you baked?”

 

Well, technically she didn’t ... _hadn’t,_ not in ages.  But how difficult could it be?  It was just like brewing a potion, wasn’t it?  “Well, I do,” Hermione responded with a touch too much bravado, causing Ron to quirk his brow skeptically.

 

“I have a book.”  And really, what more did she need?  Turning away from Ron in a bit of a huff, Hermione insisted, “And I am _going_ to make the Christmas biscuits this year.”

 

She had imagined doing this mundane and lovely task for _years_ and she was going to do it, if she had to burn down the house in the process.  Annoyed at Ron’s lack of faith in her, Hermione began measuring out flour a bit too violently and it sloshed over onto her hands.  “So, you can just go out with Harry—”

 

 “Can’t.  Apparently, I’m spending the evening baking Christmas biscuits with my girl.”

           

Hermione’s hands stilled as a familiar flash of warmth filled her.  As irritating as Ron could be, he could turn around and do something equally lovely.

 

“Couldn’t let her burn down her mum and dad’s nice house.”

 

What had she said about lovely?  Hermione grunted, emptying the flour into the bowl with an unnecessary slam and turning to retaliate by flicking her flour coated hands at Ron, but seeing his nice new clothes she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

 

Unfortunately, Ron caught what she was about to do and let out a bark of a laugh at her expense.  With a frustrated growl, Hermione turned back to her bowl, muttering, “Just be glad you’re wearing good clothes.”

 

“Or you’d what, love?” 

 

Suddenly, Ron was behind her and Hermione could feel the heat of his body bleeding into hers.  No, that was just the oven.  It was _not_ his breath against her ear that made her unexpectedly dizzy.  It was merely the heat of the room.  She was _not_ going to allow him to affect her this way, not when she was annoyed with him.  Had she even remembered to turn on the oven?

 

Nevertheless, she was determined to ignore him.  Hermione vigorously set herself to the task of mixing.  Well, as vigorously as she could.  She didn’t remember it being this difficult to mix biscuit dough.  Damn it! 

 

Then Ron had to further distract her by sliding his warm calloused hands around her waist.  “I _asked_ , or you’d what?” he repeated huskily.

 

Why was she resisting again?  Right.  Ron had insulted her, insinuated that she couldn’t complete a simple task like baking biscuits.  Well, for that she wasn’t answering his daft question and she wasn’t going to lean back into him, either.  She was _not_.  “I’m working here,” Hermione rebuffed haughtily.

 

Ron chuckled, ruffling the curls on her neck as they escaped from her high ponytail.  “It looks like _hard_ work,” he whispered in her ear, in that deep sexy tone … not fair!  Stepping still closer, Ron pressed his full body against her back, punctuating his ridiculous double entendre.  He always did play dirty. 

 

“Here, let me help,” he breathed, his hands running down her arms, until they entwined with hers on the spoon.  Helping her stir the dense mixture, he pressed a soft kiss below her ear.  Well, it _was_ easier to stir with his help.  Ron had such lovely strong arms.  Well, maybe it would be all right if she melted, just a _tiny_ bit.

 

“You’re going to get your clothes mussed,” Hermione admonished softly, a last desperate effort to keep control as Ron lavished her neck with wet, biting kisses with just the right amount of pressure.  Again, he wasn’t playing fair, using his knowledge of her body to his advantage.

 

“It’ll clean easily enough,” Ron murmured between kisses and Hermione conceded defeat (to herself at least) and relaxed back against his chest.  Wasn’t this what she really wanted, anyway?  All those daydreams about those mundane, domestic activities and holidays rich in tradition, didn’t they all include Ron?  Didn’t he complete the perfect picture?  Without him, was there even a picture?

 

But, of course, Ron couldn’t leave it at that.  He couldn’t _just_ win.  He _had_ to rub it in, add insult to injury.  Smiling against Hermione’s skin, he added, “Unless we’re doing the laundry with our hands now, as well— _ow_!”

 

Ron broke off when her elbow collided with his abdomen.  Hermione dropped the spoon and spun in his arms, a stern look on her face as she pushed at his chest.  “I think that’s enough of _your_ help.  Now, let me go—”

 

But if there was _anyone_ as stubborn as she was, it was Ron Weasley, and he was fiercely competitive to boot.  He cut off Hermione’s rant with his lips, intent on distracting her from her task and doing a damn good job of it as well.  The prat.

 

His kiss was intense and overwhelming.  It _always_ was.  When Ron pried her lips open and deepened the kiss, there was a moment when Hermione couldn’t remember anything except how good it felt.  But only a moment.  Ron wasn’t the only one good at this game. 

 

Luring him in, Hermione gave in completely, slanting her mouth, and stroking his tongue with hers.  She returning his kisses vigorously, until Ron moaned into her mouth.  Then, reaching down, she entwined their hands.  When he let go of her waist—Ha!

 

 “Hermione,” Ron whined as she took the opportunity to pull his hand back and duck under his arm, scampering away.

 

 “I have biscuits to finish,” Hermione said primly, careful to keep her back to him.  It wouldn’t do for Ron to see the way she couldn’t catch her breath, or the smile that wouldn’t leave her face.  _That_ would make all her efforts for nothing.

 

 “ _Hermione_.” 

 

His hands, once again, slid over her hips.  Heavens, it felt wonderful.  Hermione fought the urge to let her eyes roll back into her head and slapped his hands away, struggling to focus on the instructions in the cookbook.

. 

“Fine,” Ron grumbled, pulling away sullenly and throwing himself into a chair.

 

_Finally_.  Now, Hermione could actually read the words on the … “Chill for two hours?” she read in disbelief.  She didn’t have _two_ hours.  This was completely unacceptable.  Fate was conspiring against her.  It just didn’t want her to bake these biscuits.

 

“Two hours,” Ron repeated hopefully, getting up again.  “That means—” Hermione threw him her best shrinking glower.  Didn’t he understand how important this was to her?  Ron pulled a pout at her look and sat back down. 

 

Well, there was nothing else to do.  Hermione just didn’t have two hours.  If her mother returned before she was done, she’d take out the mixer and … well, she’d ruin _everything_.  Pulling her wand out of her apron, Hermione quickly muttered a chilling charm over the dough.

 

“Hermione!” Ron gasped, giving a disbelieving laugh.  “You _cheater_!”

 

 She didn’t have much of a come back for that, but it wasn’t as if Ron had the patience to do _anything_ the Muggle way.  Hermione stuck her tongue out at him and picked up the rolling pin, waving it at him in warning.  Ron grimaced, shrinking back in his seat and putting his hands up in surrender.

           

Feeling rather satisfied with herself (she _had_ managed to best Ron _and_ the two-hour chilling time), Hermione set about the task of gathering biscuit cutters and decorative candies and placing them on the countertop. 

 

When she turned back to Ron, she was surprised to find him staring off into the distance, a contemplative, almost depressed expression on his face.  Hermione’s heart clenched.  She watched him for a moment, unnoticed, before quickly changing course and moving her equipment to the kitchen table.  The counter may be higher, but a little backache was worth being closer to Ron as she worked. 

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw that he was looking at her again, his eyes moving over her form in a way that made her warm and tingly.  But still, they didn’t lose their … _lost_ look.

 

This was more than disappointment over a night out.  Hermione took a deep breath and faced him, leaning her hip against the table.  “What’s wrong, Ron?”

 

Of course, instead of answering, Ron gave her an innocent look, shaking his head in denial, but Hermione crossed her arms and gave him a pointed glare.  It didn’t take long before he sighed, rubbing his face and slouching back into the chair.  “I just miss you is all,” he admitted softly, not meeting her gaze.

 

A sudden prickle of tears burned Hermione’s eyes.  Ron could be so damned sweet sometimes.  And _she_ had almost sent him away because he teased her about her non-existent baking skills.  Sometimes, he was a much better boyfriend than she was a girlfriend. 

 

Determined to make it better, Hermione cupped his cheek, turning his face so he met her eyes.  “Ron, love, I see you almost every day.”

 

 “ _Almost_ ,” Ron repeated, looking sad and so very young.  “ _Almost_ every day.  Never at night.  Never first thing in the morning.  After three years of seeing you every day and every night, _all_ day … I miss you.”

 

Hermione brushed the hair off of his forehead.  Might as well have that floury as well.  “We were at war, love,” she whispered.  “Traveling the continent.  Awful, filthy hotel rooms, musty tents, freezing-cold caves, and cob-ridden shacks.  Was that really _better_?”

 

 “I’d rather sleep on the ground with you, than alone in my bed at the Burrow,” he whined.  Ron pulled away sullenly and crossed his arms over his chest, leaving Hermione to sigh in frustration.  A bit of her sympathy for him dissipated.  He could be such a baby. 

 

“We’ve been over this,” Hermione reminded him quietly.  Only about fifty times a day.  Putting her hand into the flour bin and sprinkling the powdery substance onto the table, Hermione turned back to her biscuit making.  This conversation wasn’t likely to go any farther than the previous ones had.

 

 “I know,” Ron muttered, “you miss your parents—”

 

“Yes, but it’s not _just_ that.”  Hermione slapped the dough down, pounding it with her fist.  Didn’t Ron realize this was hard for her as well?  They just needed time to readjust to normal life.  It would get better.  “It’s … they aren’t happy with me staying at the Burrow with you.”  She waked the dough with the rolling pin.  “Not now that we’re—”

 

“Lovers,” Ron rasped, right into her ear, startling Hermione and making her jump as a shiver ran down her spine.  One minute he was in his chair, the next he was pressed, full-length against her back once more.  It wasn’t fair that he could move so fast. 

 

 

“Yes,” she confirmed, hating that she couldn’t keep the breathy quality out of her voice. 

 

Resolutely, she rolled out the dough.  He wasn’t going to distract her this time … Oh dear God.  A wave of pleasure ripped through her as Ron’s teeth found her earlobe.  Hermione bit her lip, but a moan still escaped.  Ron, the cheeky git, took this as encouragement and ran his tongue around the shell of her ear.

 

This wasn’t good.  Not good at all.  Hermione had already forgotten what they were talking about and the dough was coming out all uneven.  “ _Ron_!” she snapped sternly, yanking her head away. 

 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she grasped his arms and, in what she hoped was a kind and gentle manner, eased him back into his seat.  Kissing the top of his head, Hermione beseeched, “Just let me finish the biscuits first.  All right?”

 

“No,” Ron muttered petulantly.  He was slouching again, having gone from the sexy man to the sullen boy in seconds.  If he kept this up, Hermione was going to get whiplash.   

 

But she was able to think again, now that he was a safe distance away.  Hermione went back to her rolling, attempting to reason, “Ron, we’ve only been back a month.  It will take time to get used to normal life again.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

Picking up a biscuit cutter, Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him.  Ron was still pouting, looking even sadder now.  “This can’t _all_ be because you miss me.”

 

 “Oh, it can’t?”

 

So, he was going to obstinate, then.  That was nothing new.  Though, knowing Ron and how in touch with his feelings he was, he could be upset about something and not even know it.  As Hermione carefully lay the newly cut biscuits on the baking tray, she wracked her brain for ... Oh.  Oh _dear_.  How could she have forgotten?  She was a wretched girlfriend.  She really was.

 

 “You had that job interview today,” Hermione breathed, the biscuit cutter falling from her hand as she turned and gave Ron her full attention.  “How did it go?”  Stupid question.  _Obviously_ , it didn’t go _well_.

 

 If possible Ron slouched even deeper into his chair, his eyes fixing on the floor tiles.  “I didn’t go,” he muttered.

 

 “What!”  He did _not_ say what Hermione thought he said.  She _must_ have misunderstood.

 

Suddenly, Ron seemed completely fascinated by her biscuits.  Sitting up and looking over the ingredients with great interest, he answered almost off-handedly, “I said, I didn’t—”

 

“I _heard_ you.  Ron!”  Hermione screeched.  She knew that she sounded like a shrew, but she was trying to keep from panicking here, while Ron was sitting there examining a snowman shaped biscuit cutter as though he’d just found the lost treasure of Atlantis.

 

 “I don’t want to work for the ministry,” Ron said evenly, finally looking up and meeting her gaze, his jaw set and his expression carefully unreadable.

 

Ok.  Ok.  Don’t panic.  This wasn’t the end of the world.  “Did you change your mind about becoming an Auror?”  Hermione asked, holding her breath.  She didn’t know what she wanted the answer to _that_ particular question to be.  She quite liked the idea of Ron getting a nice, _safe_ job.  But she also wanted him to have _a_ job.

 

“No.  I’m done with that.  I think we’ve had quite enough excitement for one lifetime.” 

 

 Hermione frowned.  Well, she was glad he didn’t … It was hard to take him seriously when he was making snowman shaped imprints on his palm.  No … _no_.  She needed to focus.  Ron was clearly upset.  She had to be understanding.  She could do this.  She could not panic and be a good girlfriend at the same time.  She _could_. 

 

 “So, what are you going to do?”  Hermione asked, proud of how non-judgmental she sounded.

 

Again, Ron avoided eye contact.  “Do you need help with these?” he asked, tossing the cutter aside and pulling a baking tray toward him.  “What do you do?  Decorate?”  He reached for the sprinkles.

 

With every moment that passed, Hermione grew more and more frustrated.  She had this annoying urge building inside of her to stomp her foot as though _she_ was a child and it was becoming increasingly difficult to resist.  “ _Ron_!  What—?”

 

“You remember how I said the twins had a job for me?” Ron interrupted, speaking in a conversational tone as he began carefully placing sprinkles on the biscuits, one-by-one, with utmost precision.

 

“You said you didn’t want to clerk for your brothers,” Hermione reminded him in a small voice.  Deep breaths.  She needed to stay calm.  They had decided against this.  It wasn’t what either of them wanted for Ron.  He was capable of so much more.

 

“Well, it turns out that wasn’t what they had in mind—you know, this is an awful lot of effort.”  Ron gestured to the one biscuit he had decorated.

 

Hermione gave another aggravated grunt and took Ron’s hand with the sprinkle bottle in it.  “Here, like this.  Just sprinkle them on.”

 

“Oh.  That is easier.  Though, magic would be even faster, you know.” 

 

“Ron!” Hermione yelled and this time she gave into the impulse and stomped her foot, not caring how old she was acting.  If he didn’t put aside the ruddy biscuits, she’d … “What _did_ your brothers have in mind?”

 

 “Well …” Ron swallowed, sprinkling faster.  “You know that store they’ve wanted to open in Hogsmeade …?  These are done.  Do you want me to cut out some more?”

 

 Hermione snatched the pan out of his outstretched hand and slammed it onto the hob.  “No!  What did they have in mind, _Ron_?” she demanded.

 

“Well.”  Ron let out a nervous breath.  “They want me to run it.” 

 

Oh.  _Oh_.  What?  Hermione blinked at him, asking cautiously, “As in …?”

 

“Is _in_ … it would be mine.”  He took a shaky breath.  “They don’t have time to run it, with the international owl business so busy, and they want to keep it in the family.  So …” Ron looked at her through lowered lashes, chewing on his lip.  Ron _never_ chewed on his lip.

 

 They wanted him to run the store.  The _entire_ store.  It was so much responsibility, so much … Hermione squealed with excitement.  “Ron, that’s fantastic!  I mean, it is, isn’t it?”

 

 Finally, Ron smiled a small, timid smile.  “There’s a flat over the store.  It’s quite large.”

 

Heavens, this was just too exciting.  Ron was going to be a businessman, a _real_ adult.  They were finally starting their lives and she was so proud of him and … He had to be sure.  Oh, he wasn’t doing this just for her, was he?  That wouldn’t be any good.  Above everything, Hermione wanted Ron to be happy, fulfilled.

 

“But … did you take it?  Is this what you really want?  _Really_?” she asked in a rush.  “Are you sure you want to work for Fred and George?  I know you’ve always felt as if you were in their shadow—”

 

 “Love,” Ron said softly, grabbing a restlessly fluttering hand.  “After everything we’ve been through in the war, I think I’m safely past that stage.  Besides, it wouldn’t be so much working for them, than with them.  It would be _my_ store.  I’d just be selling their products.”

 

Tiny bubbles of happiness threatened to turn Hermione into a ditsy little school girl.  But as she was actually a hardened war veteran, she managed to contain the second squeal that threatened to erupt.  Though, it _was_ difficult.  She beamed and bounced a little on her feet, making Ron laugh with delight, his eyes finally losing their dark cloud.  She was _so_ proud of him.  Oh wait, she should tell him that.  

 

 “Oh, I’m _so_ proud of you!”  With that Hermione grabbed his messy, flour-speckled ginger locks and hauled him in for a hard kiss of congratulations.  They needed to celebrate.  They …

 

“Oh,” Hermione yelped, pulling away as quickly as she had attacked.  “You wanted to go out and celebrate.” 

 

Guilt churned in her belly.  Ron had wanted to surprise her.  He’d wanted to go out and celebrate his new job.  And she’d gone on about nothing, as if Christmas biscuits were as important as he was.  Hermione frowned down at the mess she’d made of his nice clothes, white hand prints glared against the navy blue … Oh well, that would _Scourgify_ easily enough. 

 

 “I’ll just go change,” Hermione said quickly, her mind racing as she stepped back.  She’d just run and put on that new dress … or should she wear her robes?  What sort of place did Ron have in mind?  Should she—?

 

Ron caught her hand, jerking her out of her excited thoughts and pulling her, disoriented, back against him.  “I like it here,” he murmured, wrapping his hands around her waist.  “Baking biscuits with Hermione, sounds like the perfect celebration.  My two favorite things,” he leaned in and kissed her astonished mouth, “sweets and Hermione.”

 

 “Don’t be _silly_ ,” she tried to reprimand.  It was difficult, though, what with the way Ron was smiling at her, kneading her back and bum.  Hermione was beginning to feel a bit dizzy.  “I’ll just—”

 

Again, Ron cut her off with a kiss, short and sweet.  “I _like_ having you all to myself.”

 

 Well, what was a witch to say to _that_?  Hermione gave up the struggle, which really wasn’t such a hardship, and allowed herself to be drawn onto his lap.  Of course, Ron, being Ron, insisted on her straddling his thighs, instead of sitting across them the _normal_ way. 

 

Oh well, it was _his_ day.  If Ron wanted to push up her skirt and stroke her thighs, as he drew her into kiss after deep, intoxicating kiss, who was Hermione to protest?  It was the good girlfriend thing to do.

 

But after several minutes of mind-numbing open-mouthed kisses, Hermione was starting to feel the intense need to take this into another room and she used what little of her brain was still functioning to calculate how long they had before her parents came home. 

 

Ron broke away to drag his lips down her neck into her modest cleavage and Hermione’s head fell back with a contented sigh.  The pleasurable ache was starting to build into an insistent burn and she gripped his shoulders as his hands struggled with the ties of her apron.  Her eyes slipped open.  Maybe she should help him with … the kitchen.  _Damn it._

 

“Ron, the biscuits,” Hermione moaned, hating that she had to stop him, but in a few minutes she’d forget all about the disaster that was the kitchen and her parents would come home and know _exactly_ what had been going on.

 

 “The biscuits can wait,” Ron insisted.  Giving up on the knot, he reached around to knead her breast through her apron and jumper with one hand, while the other flattened against her bum, pulling her pelvis flush against him.  Hermione groaned, her eyes fluttering shut as her hips, against her better judgment, began to instinctively move against him.  “We have all night,” he groaned, his breath quickening.

 

Have all night for what?  Oh, the biscuits.  Right.  The biscuits.  “If we have all night, we can finish _this_ after the biscuits,” Hermione argued, sounding surprisingly logical, though that part of her brain was having increasing difficulty functioning.  And her hips and hands seemed to be paying more attention to Ron than to her.

 

Ron growled, his hand capturing the back of her head and pulling her back into a deep, fierce kiss.  Heavens, the things he could do with his tongue.  The biscuits could definitely wait …

 

Something sharp pinched her thigh … not _that_.  _That_ was nestled tightly where it belonged, right against her … Ouch!  Hermione tried to pull away, but was met with rather fervent resistance.  She pushed on Ron’s chest, using both hands and all her strength to keep his lips off hers. 

 

“Wait a minute … _Ron_ …” Hermione couldn’t help but giggle at the enthusiasm with which he was attacking every inch of her exposed skin.  “Just a second, there’s … there’s something pinching me ... in your pocket.” 

 

Oh, the hell with it.  It didn’t hurt that much anyway.  Hermione let her head roll to the side, allowing him more access as she threaded her hands into his hair.  But instead of taking advantage as she expected, Ron froze, his lips motionless against her skin, his every muscle suddenly rigid.  Then he took a hissing breath and slowly sat back. 

 

Hermione frowned at the change, watching him run the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip and wishing it was on hers instead.  Why was she always interrupting things? 

 

“Right,” Ron muttered.  His voice oddly shaky.  “Yes.  Ok, then.”

 

Well, this was … strange.  “Ron?”  Hermione asked curiously, at a complete loss for what could have brought a halt to the vigorous snog-about-to-be-shag.  Ron never voluntarily stopped once they’d reached this point.  Not since they’d lost their virginity to each other years ago.

 

 Ron answered by pushing her leg back, away from the sharp, offending object.  Using his left arm to keep Hermione steady in his lap, he lifted his bum and wiggled his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small drawstring pouch, which he then clutched in his hand anxiously.

 

 What the heavens …?  Hermione could do nothing but stare at him.  Whatever could have Ron so nervous?  An early Christmas present or … it had better not be one of the twins’ new inventions.  Just because he was running their store didn’t mean she’d tolerate their nonsense in her home.

 

And still he didn’t explain.  Finally, Hermione prompted, “What’s this—?”  Immediately, Ron pressed his hand to her lips, quieting her.  Well, if he’d just explain, she wouldn’t need to be quieted.  Honestly. 

 

But Ron continued to take his own ruddy time, pulling her closer so that their bodies were flush once more.  The only thing that kept Hermione from demanding he tell her what in the name of magic was going on was watching the anxious play of emotions across his face. 

 

“So, well …” Ron stumbled, taking a deep nervous breath.  “I know you are Muggle-born and all … so, you might not … but it _is_ tradition.  Um … Hermione …”

 

Now, Ron was making absolutely no sense.  Yet, Hermione smiled, because, well, she wasn’t exactly sure why.  Maybe it was anxiety … or how cute he looked, all flustered.  Maybe it was both.  And because, deep down, she really was as mental as he’d always accused.  “Ron—?”

 

“Shhh … _Hand in hand._

_The lovers band._

_With fear and faithful yearning._

_What once was two,_

_Is born anew._

_In love forever burning_.”

 

 

Hermione gapped at him.  Was that a poem?  Had Ron just recited her a _poem_?  She hadn’t realized Ron knew any poems … or even what one was, for that matter.  But, still, it was lovely. 

 

Great, now she was going to cry and she was just as confused as ever.  What an odd night this was turning into.  All Hermione had wanted was to bake biscuits the Muggle way and now she was straddling Ron in her parent’s catastrophe of a kitchen, being recited _poetry_ , of all things. 

 

Ron looked at Hermione expectantly, as if he expected her to say something.  Oh, the poor dear probably thought she hated it.  “It’s lovely, Ron.  Did you write …?”  Ron writing poetry?  It was too bizarre.

 

 His face fell a bit, looking as though the wind had been knocked out of him.  Ron shook his head.  “No, I … I had a feeling you might not understand.” 

 

One of his knees began to bounce restlessly beneath her bum as Ron turned progressively brighter shades of red.  Hermione was beginning to fear he’d hyperventilate before he ever got the chance to explain himself.  The hand holding the pouch clenched and unclenched repeatedly, while his other hand dug into her hip almost painfully. 

 

Trying again, Ron sputtered, “It’s just that … this is the way wizards have been asking for centuries … I don’t know the Muggle way of things … oh, bugger it all.”

 

Ron let go of her hip so quickly that she lurched backward, losing her balance.  Luckily, Hermione was able to catch herself by grabbing his neck, which was good since Ron didn’t seem notice.  He was too busy frantically trying to undo the satchel.  He was having with very little success, the poor dear. 

 

He really was acting quite mad.  Maybe it was stress.  The after affects of the war, perhaps.  Hermione was about to offer to help with the knot when Ron finally got it undone.  He took a great gasping breath of relief, his hand shaking as he reached inside and ….

 

Oh dear God.  Suddenly, Hermione was the one who couldn’t breathe.  Oh God.  Oh God.  Ron held up a perfect diamond ring, whispering, “I don’t know the Muggle way to … to ask you to marry me.”

 

 Hermione was so busy hyperventilating that she almost didn’t hear him.  “They, um … they generally just ask,” she muttered, without even realizing she was talking.  It was amazing that her voice was even working.  The rest of her body had gone numb and her heart was pounding in her ears. 

 

Ron was asking her to marry him.  Now.  Not after years of Hermione nagging and pushing him to be responsible.  Now, when they were barely in their twenties and oh my, the ring was beautiful and he looked so sincere and wonderful and oh God … oh God …

 

“Oh.  Well, that is easier,” Ron mumbled, somehow managing to hold the ring still so that she could get her trembling fingers around it.

 

Hermione giggled somewhat hysterically.  She was having trouble seeing.  Everything was liquid and blurry.  But, oh … it seemed she was crying.  That made sense, then.  “Sometimes, the bloke gets down on his knees as well,” she replied and then wondered how she was managing to have this conversation.  Dear heavens.  This was actually happening.

 

“I knew there was some daft thing they did,” Ron responded, his voice shaky.

Ordinarily, Hermione would have corrected him, told him it was romantic.  But somehow her eyes managed to come into focus and she was holding the most perfect antique diamond ring.  All her breath left in a whoosh.  “This must have cost a fortune.”

 

 “The twins advanced me.  Harry said diamonds were traditional for—”

 

 “It’s beautiful,” Hermione gasped, her voice heavy with emotion.  It was.  So, beautiful.  She was going to start weeping like a baby.  Her hand fluttered in front of her, coming to rest on the tip of her nose as she tried to catch her breath.  Oh God.  This was happening.  Really, really happening. 

 

She’s dreamed of this moment so often ... never so soon … no, that was a lie.  She had.  She’d dreamed of eloping during the war.  Or of a wonderful, celebratory ceremony the day it ended.  Large, small, all types of weddings.  Hermione started out this night trying to fulfill an elusive, post-war fantasy with biscuits and Ron had given her so much more.

 

 “I know we’re a bit young, by Muggle standards,” Ron began rambling.  “And the war only ended a month ago.  But, Hermione, there’s something missing.  For years, I’ve envisioned what it would be like once the war ended.  The thing is, you were always there.  I don’t want—”

 

 This time, it was Hermione who broke Ron off with a finger to his lips.  Had he always been this wonderful?  Did she deserve him?  His bright blue eyes swam in front of her and she managed a smile as she murmured huskily, “You don’t have to convince me.”

 

 Ron’s eyes were wide as he whispered, “But … you haven’t answered.”

 

Hermione frowned in confusion.  “I haven’t?  Oh, I haven’t.  I’m sorry.  I mean, yes.  Of course, _yes_.  Of course, I’ll marry …” her voice broke and then it didn’t matter because Ron’s lips were back on hers.

 

The kisses they shared were simple, shallow, but somehow they held more meaning than any kiss they’d shared before.  Her tears mixed with his lips and tasted of heaven.  “Help me,” Hermione breathed, pulling away and offering him a trembling hand as she tried to fit the ring over her flour drenched finger.

 

Ron laughed breathlessly as he fitted the ring over her knuckle, then turned her hand over to press a kiss to her palm.  Her Ron.  Her wonderful, wonderful Ron.  Hermione cupped his cheek and he closed his eyes, leaning into her.  She heard something that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle and, if possible, her heart expended even more.

 

Hermione caressed his cheek, sliding her hand back into his hair and bringing Ron’s lips back to hers.  She needed them back.  She needed more contact.  She needed … This time their kisses were neither simple nor shallow.  And Hermione was the aggressor.  Suddenly, she couldn’t get enough of him. 

 

The sweet loving feelings inside her were instantaneously replaced with fierce possessiveness and the need to claim him.  Ron.  Her Ron.  _Forever_ , he was hers.  She wanted to devour him, _had_ to.  Hermione wanted to take every bit of him inside of her and keep it there forever.

 

Her kiss was almost violent as she sucked on his lips and tongue, their teeth clashing.  Ron moaned appreciatively into her mouth.  Hermione knew the dear man loved her like this, loved when she took control of him and lost control of herself at the same time.

 

Her fingers flew over the buttons of his shirt with surprising dexterity, given the situation.  Once his shirt was undone, Hermione yanked it off of his broad shoulders.  God, she loved his shoulders.  She dug her nails into the firm, smooth flesh possessively.  _Hers_.  She had to have him … n _ow_.  Reaching behind her, she frantically undid the ties of her apron, her wand clattering carelessly to the floor.  There was too much … _cloth_ between them. 

 

Laughing joyfully, Ron pulled back until his lips just grazed hers.  “What about the biscuits?” he teased, even as his hands made their way under her skirt to slip inside the waistband of her knickers.

 

Biscuits?  If Ron was even thinking about biscuits right then, she was doing something wrong.  “The biscuits can wait,” Hermione threw back, her voice unusually deep as she leaned back and crossed her arms to remove her shirt in the way that she knew pushed her breasts together and drove him to distraction.  “We have all night.”

 

Hermione wasn’t disappointed.  Ron’s breath hissed, then turned into a growl.  The teasing was over.  Thank God.  He pulled her back to him roughly, his tongue once again tangling with hers as he took the lead, triggering a flash of arousal that went straight to her core.  She whimpered.  Ron was rarely content with allowing her to lead the entire time.  Not until he had been sated at least once. 

 

Managing to find enough functioning brain cells to undo her bra, Hermione broke away from his lips just long enough to fling it across the room.  Ron took immediate advantage, finding her nipple and pulling it into his mouth as his fingers slipped between her thighs.

           

But instead of the excitement she usually felt when Ron’s fingers slid expertly through her folds, Hermione felt only frustration.  This wasn’t what she wanted.  She yanked his hand away, frantically going to work on his belt buckle.  “No foreplay,” she whimpered.  “I want you inside me.”

           

Ron let out a low groan at her words, shuddering as his cock jumped under her hand.  “God, Hermione.  _Shite_.” 

 

Hermione didn’t even care that he swore.  She was too busy breathing a sigh of relief as he pushed her clumsy hands out of the way and quickly freed himself from his trousers.  If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she actually loved when Ron lost control and swore during sex.  It was raw and masculine … _sexy_.

 

Ron’s actions took on a new desperation.  He shoved her knickers out of the way, holding himself against her.  Hermione braced herself against his shoulders and they moved together to accomplish what they both so urgently needed and … oh … _oh_ … dear heavens, it felt _so_ good. 

 

Hermione knew she’d never get used to the wonderful sensation of Ron filling her, slowly and completely, stretching her.  “Mmm.”  Her eyes fluttered closed as she savored the friction, the delicious fullness.

 

Ron pulled her as close as she could get, flattening her breasts against his chest.  When Hermione opened her eyes again, a dreamy smile on her lips, the desperation on his face had dimmed and instead he stared up at her with such … _adoration_ and wonder.  He was so beautiful, even with flour streaked across his face and hair.  “I love you _so_ much,” she whispered.

           

Ron closed his eyes and inhaled, as if he wanted to breathe in her words.  She _was_ a silly romantic tonight.  Hermione pressed her palm to his cheek, needing that extra little bit of contact as she waited for his bright blue gaze to come back to hers.  When they did, he swallowed, saying so low it was barely audible, “I love _you_.”

 

Hermione knew she was the luckiest witch on the planet.  This was the man she got to be with for the rest of her life.  They shared one brief, tender kiss and Ron began to move, all the while holding her gaze with an almost frightening intensity. 

 

 

Slow and gentle, he led her hips in delicious circles, the movement slight, but powerful.  She kept her fingers pressed against his face and his lips grazed her palm.  _This_ was what making love was.

 

For a moment, Hermione actually imagined she was staring into his soul; the intimacy in the room was so palpable.  She hoped Ron could feel the same … of course, he could feel it.  It was right there in his eyes.

 

Hermione wanted the slow, loving slide to last forever … well, maybe not _forever_.  No … no, she definitely needed more.  She wasn’t sure how long it took, but the exquisite grind built and built.  The tension, the pleasure, the ache became too much.  It cried out for release.  She needed … she needed …

 

As if sensing her frustrations, Ron lifted up into her, filling her more completely and making her cry out.  He growled and that was the end of the slow, steady pace.  Hermione clutched his hair as his teeth found her neck and her feet came to rest on the floor, giving her leverage to increase their pace. 

 

The pleasure was too much.  Her head fell back limply, moans falling from her lips almost continuously now, mixing with a whimper as Ron’s mouth found her nipple again.  It was too much.  Hermione keened as wave after wave of pleasure rocked her body, lights flashing behind her closed lids.

 

Ron held her to him, stroking her back, and murmuring her name over and over as all the tension drained out of her body, leaving her clinging to him, limp and sated.  Hermione listened to his ragged breathing in her ear as he let her come back to herself before letting himself go. 

 

Hermione smiled into the sweaty skin of his neck and pressed a hard kiss there.  Ron moaned and his control evaporated.  All she could do then was brace herself as he pushed up into her, harsh and fast.  After that, it only seconds before his face twisted up.  She felt a familiar warm gush and, with a groan, he stilled as well. 

 

Ron finally collapsed, his head falling to her shoulder, his breathing raged.  Hermione peppered his neck and face with kisses, smiling into his hair and stroking his back under the shirt that still hung loosely from his shoulders.  She had never felt so sated, so satisfied, so … _happy_.  Ron was right.  There _had_ been something missing since the war ended.  And now they found it.

 

 When his breathing finally returned to normal, Ron smiled up at her, saying hoarsely, “God, love.  See what happens when you go so long between shagging.”

 

Hermione laughed.  She couldn’t believe how happy she was.  “I rather think _that_ had more to do with the engagement.  It had only been _two_ days, Ron.”

 

 “See.  Far too long,” he quipped.  She chuckled, her face resting against his sweaty temple as they held each other for a moment longer. 

Hermione was just starting to feel they really _should_ do something about the kitchen, when Ron pulled back, looking up at her seriously.  “I can’t stand this anymore, Hermione.  Marry me on Christmas.”

 

 “ _This_ Christmas?” Hermione gasped, incredulous.  Was he teasing her?  Oh dear, he didn’t look like he was teasing.  “That’s only one week away.”

 

Ron hugged her to him, pressing a wet kiss to her chin without breaking the hold he had on her eyes.  “We can move into the flat above the store on boxing day.  It will be hard enough lasting one last week.”

 

 Just when she didn’t think he could surprise her anymore, Ron pulled something like this.  One week!  Oh and looking at him now, sweet and loving and needy … needing _her_ , it was so hard to say no to him. 

 

But as much as Hermione had fantasized about the war-time elopement, the romantic, spur-of-the-moment wedding, when faced with the reality … it just didn’t seem right.  Their life of danger and not knowing if they would survive until tomorrow was over.  They really _did_ have their whole lives ahead of them now. 

 

“Ron, it takes time to plan a wedding,” Hermione said gently, only to be met with a look that said, “So?”  He wasn’t going to make this easy for her.  “I don’t want to rush this.  I’ve been imagining my wedding … _our_ wedding for most of our lives.  I don’t want it hastily thrown together.  I want to do it right.  This is the beginning of our lives together—”

 

“I get it,” Ron groaned, cutting her off as he buried his face back into her shoulder.  Grunting with disappointment, he pulled her closer.

 

Wiping the wetness from her eyes, Hermione pressed her lips to his hair and whispered, “We can still move in on boxing day.”

 

Ron’s head snapped up, his eyes searching hers, wide and hopeful.  “Really?  What about …?  Don’t _tease_ me, Hermione.  I can’t handle it.”

 

Hermione stilled him with a short kiss and a smile.  Suddenly, this plan seemed like the only thing to do.  The war may be over, but time was still precious.  “My parents don’t want me living with my _boyfriend_.  I’m sure I can persuade them that a fiancé is a different matter altogether.”  Well, it might take quite a lot of persuading.  They’d grumble and fuss, but in the end they’d adjust and the promise of a big wedding would ease the blow.

 

Ron beamed up at her, that familiar light back in his eyes.  “You’d better,” he declared, kissing her hard.

 

She was starting to feel giddy.  Hermione couldn’t stop smiling, looking at Ron and … oh heavens, they were getting married.  She was moving in with him … in _one_ week.  There was so much to think about.  “Do you think your parents will be all right with this?” she asked nervously.

 

“Who cares?”

 

“Ron!”

 

Smiling, he rubbed her back, and looked up at her happily.  “They’ll understand.  For God’s sake, we were traveling together for three years.  What did they _think_ was going on?”

 

 “That was different, Harry—”

 

“I’ll _make_ them understand.  I promise.  Now, kiss me, woman.  We need to finish those biscuits.  I’m starving.”

 

 Oh well, they’d worry about the details later.  Right now, there was post-coital bliss and diamond rings streaked with flour that Hermione had to stop and admire every few minutes.  There were sugary sweets and a giddy Ron who seemed to have developed a dozen hands.  For once, she didn’t mind at all.

 

Somehow, they managed to finish the biscuits.  Of course, Ron ate half of the decorations and they took far too long to cook.  Who decided to design the cooker to only hold two trays at a time?  Terribly inefficient.  Though, it didn’t help that she had forgotten to pre-heat it.

In the end, Hermione didn’t see any harm in using magic to cook the rest and appease her new fiancé’s empty stomach.  The ones that _did_ make it into the cooker were uneven, some burnt, others undercooked.  But a little magic fixed that as well.  They still did it the Muggle way … mostly.

 

The biscuits weren’t perfect, but Ron declared them delicious.  It wasn’t exactly the way Hermione fantasized.  But really, the thing about magic and Ron was … they just made everything better.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed my little Christmas indulgence and didn’t get too much of a sugar shock. ;) 
> 
> I need to thank my husband, Kevin, for the poem in this story. I asked him … ok told him that I needed him to write me a short engagement poem, since he has a much better sense of rhyme than I do. I asked on the way home from dinner one night. He grumbled and whined about how much he hates helping with my fan fiction. “Goddamn Harry Potter grumble grumble.” Two red lights later he told me to give him a pen and scribbled down the words I used here. Not bad if I do say so myself.


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